


The Curious Case of the Missing Antichrist

by Aedemiel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Ideas, Crossover, Desperation, M/M, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22361515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aedemiel/pseuds/Aedemiel
Summary: What if Aziraphale and Crowley had consulted the great consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, about finding Adam Young?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 189
Collections: Clever Crossovers & Fantastic Fusions





	The Curious Case of the Missing Antichrist

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little vignette that's been rolling around in my head.

“This is a terrible idea,” Crowley said grumpily.

“My dear, if you have a better one, then I’d love to hear it.” Aziraphale gave the demon a worried glance. “We’re running out of time.”

“I know. I just want it on record that I don’t think it’s going to work. How do we explain we want to find an eleven-year-old boy without seeming like total creeps? This guy’s got a reputation for being very astute.”

“Then try to tell as few lies as possible,” Aziraphale said impatiently.

He knocked at the door and held his breath. The woman who opened the door was old, but still relatively spry and certainly appeared in full possession of her faculties. She smiled kindly at them.

“You here to see Sherlock?” she asked, almost rhetorically. Aziraphale suspected nearly every caller was for the famous consulting detective. 

“Yes, madam,” he said, trying not to wring his hands.

“Come on up,” she said. Aziraphale could see she was assessing the two of them with a sharp eye. She was bright and friendly, but there was a hint of wariness as well. She led them up some wooden stairs and knocked on a glass-paneled door.

“Coo-ee,” she said, popping her head around the door. “Clients for you, Sherlock.”

“Send them in,” a voice said inside. 

The flat was strangely decorated. Old flocked wallpaper was punctuated by a set of holes in the wall to form a smiley face. Crowley thought they were bullet holes. He subtly indicated it to Aziraphale with a slight movement of his head. The angel gave an equally near-imperceptible nod.

The rest of the room contained a bric-a-brac of mismatched furniture, all sorts of peculiar items including a skull and a harpoon, and a man, maybe an inch or two over five and a half feet tall. His erect demeanor and cold, appraising eye suggested a military background. Crowley exchanged a glance with Aziraphale and then back to the man, who held out his hand.

“Dr. John Watson,” he said. Aziraphale shook it and smiled.

“Angelo Fell,” he replied, his voice shaking slightly on the admittedly ludicrous first name he’d chosen for himself, against Crowley’s better judgment. Another taller man strode out of the kitchen and crossed the room, ignoring them entirely and sat down at the table. He began typing furiously at a laptop.

“We need more boric acid, John,” the tall man said.

“And this is Sherlock Holmes,” Dr. Watson said with a trace of resignation. He looked at Crowley, who gave him one of those grins that was too wide, a little too menacing. The demon offered his hand to shake. Dr. Watson took it, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Anthony Crowley,” he said in a voice that said, ‘don’t fuck with me.’ Aziraphale gave a repressive cough.

Dr. Watson’s eyebrows lifted a touch. “Please,” he said, stepping back and spreading one arm to point to the couch. “Sit down. Would you like some tea?”

“Ooh, yes, that would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, beaming.

“Nothing for me,” Crowley added. Dr. Watson nodded and scurried off into the kitchen. Aziraphale frowned at the tatty couch and then sat down gingerly, Crowley slouching next to him.

They sat there in uncomfortable silence, Mr. Holmes still typing away almost venomously.

“Sherlock, where’s the kettle?” Dr. Watson’s voice came from the small kitchen.

“I needed the heating element,” Mr. Holmes told him, not looking up from his computer.

“Damn it,” came a slightly irritated response.

There was a knock at the door, and it opened. “Oo, oo,” Mrs. Hudson said, bearing a tray complete with teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits. “I made you some tea.”

“Mrs. Hudson, you are a treasure,” Dr. Watson said, relieving her of the tray and giving her an affectionate smile.

She bustled off, and Dr. Watson cleared a few newspapers and a glass contraption Crowley couldn’t identify off a small battered coffee table. He poured the tea for all of them, ignoring Crowley’s demurral.

“Milk?” he asked, holding out the white china milk jug. “Sugar.”

Aziraphale gave him a benevolent smile. “Milk, please. And two lumps of sugar.” Crowley waved a hand to dismiss them. Dr. Watson puttered about adding milk and sugar to three of the cups, placed the black one in front of Crowley, and then picked up one of the cups and took it over to Mr. Holmes.

“Right, he said, turning back to the angel and the demon on his couch. “What can we do for you?” He sat down in one of the armchairs, still assessing them with that watchful eye.

“Well,” Aziraphale said nervously. “We need to find this boy.”

Dr. Watson’s face became completely blank.

“W-w-e’re his uh, godfathers,” the angel continued. “And, well--”

“We think there might have been a mix-up,” Crowley interjected. “At the hospital where he was born.”

“Right, and we’re trying to track down another family who also gave birth on the same night. Maybe the babies got accidentally swapped?”

“There are lots of babies born every night in hospitals across the country,” Dr. Watson said, guardedly.

“Yes, but luckily, this particular birthing hospital was also a uh, convent,” Aziraphale continued. “As far as we know, only one other birth occurred that night. We went there to look at their records, but there was a fire, and the hospital burned down. All the records were destroyed.”

Dr. Watson nodded. There was still no response from Mr. Holmes.

“So, we saw your names in the paper, and we uh, wondered if you might be able to help us track this other boy down.”

“Well, it’s not much to go on,” Dr. Watson said.

“Birth certificates,” Mr. Holmes said, not lifting his head away from his laptop. “All online these days.”

“We checked those,” Crowley said lazily. “There were too many. We don’t know the kid’s name, all we know is his birthday, which is tomorrow, and none of the records we found had St Beryl’s as the hospital.”

“Where is this convent?” Dr. Watson asked, standing. He went over to a bookcase and pulled out a road atlas.

Aziraphale took it and flipped quickly to the correct page. “Here,” he said, pointing. “Near the Tadfield US Air Force Base.”

“Ex-airforce base, angel,” Crowley supplied. 

“It is now,” the angel retorted. “It wasn’t at the time.”

“Right,” Crowley said dismissively. 

“And you’re sure it was this St Beryl’s where your godson was born?” Dr. Watson asked.

“Yes,” Crowley said. “I was there, to drop off the ba--”

“A gift,” Aziraphale interrupted. “For the parents.”

Dr. Watson was now looking at them very suspiciously. “OK,” he said slowly. 

“Can you help us?” Aziraphale asked anxiously.

“There’s not much to work with,” Dr. Watson hedged.

Mr. Holmes spun round in his seat. “Nonsense, John. There’s plenty to work with.” He gave them a smile that did not reach his eyes. Crowley could feel the man taking them in, his eyes flickering over them both intently. Dr. Watson’s jaw twitched. “Give John the address of this convent, and we’ll look into it.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said gratefully. He handed Dr. Watson a note written in his beautiful, elaborate handwriting and one of his business cards. “You can contact us here.” Dr. Watson blinked. Crowley stood up, desperate to get out of there and hustled Aziraphale towards the door. Mrs. Hudson had just come in to collect the tea things and stared at them as Crowley marched the angel past her.

“We’ll be in touch,” Dr. Watson said as they left.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson watched the retreating figures of Sherlock’s latest clients and frowned slightly. 

“Weren’t they odd?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said in that voice that told John that his interest had been piqued. “Very odd.” He’d stood up and was watching them out of the window.

“Bit rich, coming from you,” John said mildly as he joined his friend, observing the two clients as they left. Sherlock ignored him. Crowley turned to look at the window, and for a moment, John felt as though they had made eye contact, even though that was impossible. Even without the sunglasses, they were too far away, the light was poor, and the net curtain provided extra privacy. He inhaled involuntarily, feeling slightly creeped out.

“So, what did you make of them?”

“You tell me,” Sherlock replied, still watching intently. Oh great, one of those days where his friend wanted to humiliate him.

“OK, well, first of all, I don’t think they gave us their real names,” he said hesitantly. “At least, Fell was definitely lying about his name and wasn’t very comfortable with it. The other, Crowley, seemed more laid back but didn’t seem too convinced about Fell’s name either.” 

Sherlock watched him with a steady gaze but didn’t interrupt.

“So, yes, both liars,” he concluded. “Fell isn’t very good at it, which means he doesn’t do it very often. Crowley’s better, he didn’t give anything away, and I probably wouldn’t have spotted his lies if Fell hadn’t been here.” That was an uncomfortable admission, but he knew Sherlock would have noticed that anyway.

“The story about the babies getting mixed up is very fishy,” he continued. “I was sure you would refuse to take the case.”

“The case is boring,” Sherlock agreed. “If they had been ordinary people, I wouldn’t have taken it. What else did you notice about them?”

“I can’t quite figure out Fell’s clothes,” John replied. “He was dressed like a character from one of those BBC period dramas. But it wasn’t a costume; this is how he normally dresses.” 

“It’s still raining,” he continued. “Has been all morning. But he was dry, and his clothes were immaculate. Neither of them had an umbrella.” He didn’t understand that observation, although he was sure he was right. He went back to the armchair and sat down. His tea was cold, he discovered.

“Fell was very awkward. He sat there in a very formal position. It didn’t look comfortable. So, he was nervous.” He paused, waiting for Sherlock to say something.

“Very good, John,” Sherlock said warmly. John swallowed hard at the thrill that went through him from Sherlock’s rare praise. “What about the other one, Crowley?”

“Ah,” John hedged. “He was harder to read. Apparently, he shops at the same store you do for clothes.”

Sherlock snorted.

“The sunglasses thing was strange. It’s not that bright in here. But whenever he looked at me, it was like… I don’t know. Weird. Like he could see right through me. Not like you do, deducing things from tiny details. More like he could read my mind.” He shivered.

“He sat very still. Both of them did, actually. You’d think Fell would fidget, given how anxious he was. But neither of them moved a muscle. And they avoided touching each other. I mean, really avoided it, even on that narrow landing. Except at the end when Crowley was nearly shoving Fell out the door, he had his hand on his lower back.” He frowned. “A bit intimate, that.”

He paused to think.“They’ve known each other for a long time. And…” he hesitated, unsure how Sherlock would react to the next part. “There’s some kind of tension between them. Fell looks at Crowley like… like…” He scratched the back of his head. “He loves him. Not just as a friend, I mean head over heels romantic loves him.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. John’s train of thought derailed for a moment. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. 

“Right. I couldn’t tell how Crowley felt; I don’t think he even knows how Fell feels. They’re not a couple. I don’t think Fell has hopes in that arena. It was more like unrequited love.”

“Crowley called Fell ‘angel’,” he said suddenly. “Fell said his name was Angelo, so we were probably supposed to think it was a contraction of his name. But it didn’t feel like that. It was more like a term of endearment, but… not quite. I don’t know. It was more like when I call you ‘the great detective.’ A description and a rather sarcastic one at that. Do you think Fell’s a priest? Could explain the clothes and the unrequited love.” He sighed. “That’s it. How’d I do?”

“Excellent, John,” Sherlock said, delighted. John waited for the sting in the tail, but it didn’t come.

“Come on then,” he said. “Tell me how I missed everything of importance.”

Sherlock’s face was inscrutable. “Not much,” he said. “I’ve never seen anyone so utterly blank as those two men.”

John stared at him in astonishment. “What do you mean?”

“John, you know how I work. All the little details I observe and can make inferences from. I didn’t get anything from them. You were right about their clothes. They looked brand new, as though they’d just put them on for the first time. No lint, no stains, no mud or raindrops, not even any creases. Nothing.” He moved away from the window and sat on his favorite chair, legs crossed beneath him. “And no tics or tells. As you pointed out, neither of them moved.” He leaned forward, hands together as though in prayer. “And Mr. Fell forgot to breathe.”

“Well, he was nervous,” John said. “People do that sometimes when they’re anxious or upset.”

“How long were they here?”

“I don’t know, fifteen minutes. Twenty at the most.”

“Who do you know who can hold their breath for fifteen or twenty minutes?”

“Swimmers, maybe,” John said, thinking. “Freedivers. But it takes training and effort. He didn’t look all that fit.” He had a bad feeling about this case. Why had Sherlock insisted they take it?

“Hmm,” Sherlock said. He held his hand out for the business card. “Not a priest. Fell runs a second-hand bookshop in Soho. Why didn’t I see that?” He seemed frustrated.

“A bookshop? One of those old bookshops full of first editions and the like?” He thought about it. “I could buy that. Those antique booksellers are a strange bunch. Crowley didn’t look like a bookshop owner, though.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “He does something, but I can’t figure out what it is.”

“So, can we find this missing child?”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock replied. “This isn’t a needle in a haystack, John, it’s a needle in a… needlestack. Even I need more clues than what they gave us. I looked up St Beryl’s while you were talking to them. I can’t find a single trace of it in online county records or church records. I tried every denomination there is.”

“So that was a lie too? Was anything they said true?”

“They really do want to find the boy,” Sherlock said. “They’re desperate to find him. Before his birthday.”

“Why would that matter?” John asked.

“I don’t know.”

Despite his reservations, John started looking into the scant details Crowley and Fell had given them. He huffed in frustration, every time he thought he might be onto something, it slipped away. Staring at the map for more than a few seconds gave him a headache. 

“There’s a management training course center,” he said finally. “Right at the address where the convent was supposed to be.”

“Management training course? Ugh. Sounds boring.”

“Well, it’s the kind where they give you paintball guns, and you shoot each other. Sound like fun, actually.”

“How does that train you for management?” Sherlock said curiously.

“Well, teamwork, y’know. Strategizing, organization, human resource deployment.”

The letterbox clanked downstairs. John could hear Mrs. Hudson shuffle to the door and collect it, then start coming up the stairs. She poked her head around the door.

“It’s for you,” she said, offering a small, cream envelope. Sherlock snatched it and scrutinized it.

“Ganpishi,” he said in surprise. 

“What’s that?”

“Japanese paper, made by a famous craftsman, Abe Eishiro. It’s made from the bark of the ganpi tree, which is hard to grow, so it has to be harvested from the wild. There are imitations out there, but this is the real deal.” Sherlock shook his head. “Abe’s long dead and the paper he made is quite rare.”

“Bit strange, making an envelope out of that,” John commented.

“Not just strange,” Sherlock mused. “Unbelievable. And yet, here it is.”

“What’s inside?”

“Money,” Sherlock said, carefully opening the envelope to show him. “Five hundred pounds.” It wasn’t a guess, John knew.

“And a note.” He tossed it to John.

“Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” he read. “Please accept our thanks for your assistance with our problem. We have resolved the issue and have no further need of your help. I include payment for services rendered. Yours sincerely, A.Z. Fell.” John gaped at the note. “What the fuck?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, his eyes distant.

“We didn’t do _anything,_ ” John exclaimed. 

“It’s to make us back off,” Sherlock said. “They’re not paying us for our work. They’re paying us to close the case.”

“Oh,” John said, sitting down. “Well, I guess that’s that then.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock’s face was a mask. He picked up his violin and began to play, a haunting melody he was fond of playing when he was thinking. “Indeed.” 

  
  



End file.
